The Mistress Bride

'Miss Delahaye?' the taller, sharper-looking of the two enquired.

Evie's stomach muscles contracted, her shoulders straightening slightly as if in readiness to receive a dreadful blow. 'Who are you?' she demanded. 'What are you doing here?'

She was offered an obsequious bow, and Evie didn't like it. It sent an icy shiver chasing down her spine, as if the cold hand of fate had just touched her shoulder.

'My apologies for this intrusion,' the spokesman murmured politely. 'My name is Jamal Al Kareem. I am come bearing messages for you from Crown Prince Hashim,' he explained.

'And Prince Raschid?' Evie questioned. 'Is he not with you?'

'Prince Raschid is engaged on official business,' she was informed. 'In our neighbouring state of Abadilah.' Abadilah ... That cold hand touched her shoulder again. Abadilah was the state Aisha's father ruled.

'Then how did you gain access to this apartment?' she asked coldly.

'As the Crown Prince's head of security I have access to all Royal residences. It is, I am afraid, a necessary evil for powerful families to take special precautions to protect themselves,' he explained, moving ever closer to her as he spoke. 'For power brings with it its own enemies, and those enemies may decide that trouble can best be served from within, so to speak.'

He came to a stop at the rear of the sofa where Evie had been sitting. In response, Evie found herself taking a defensive step backwards, something in his super-polite, very silky tone making her feel threatened. As if he was subtly informing her that she was classed as an enemy here.

'Y -you said Crown Prince Hashim sent you,' she prompted, utilising a cool aloofness in an attempt to offset whatever it was this horrible man was giving off.

Another bow, another shiver. 'The Crown Prince is most concerned about the predicament you find yourself in at present,' the messenger confirmed. 'He wishes me to relay to you his most sincere apologies for any distress you have been forced to endure due to his premature announcement to the media.'

'Th-thank you,' Evie said, her eyes flicking nervously to where the other man was standing by the door, half in and half out of it as if he was on alert, listening for Asim's return. 'But you may assure Crown Prince Hashim that no apology was necessary.'

'He will be most humbly grateful for your gracious understanding,' the spokesman returned courteously. 'But the Crown Prince is disturbed that your feelings were not taken into account when he released the statement about his son's forthcoming marriage. It was insensitive of him, as his revered son pointed out. Now he wishes to make recompense for any distress caused to yourself.'

Watching him lift a hand to his inside pocket, Evie felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten just a little bit more. What she thought he was going to withdraw from that pocket she wasn't quite sure, but what she didn't expect to see him holding out towards her was a slender slip of paper.

Wary, confused, instinctively suspicious of what was taking place here, Evie stepped forward so she could take the piece of paper, then stepped quickly back before letting her eyes drop from Jamal Al Kareem's expressionless face to check out what she was holding. And felt a sense of chilling horror slide slowly through her blood.

It was a cheque made out to the World Aid Foundation for two million pounds.

'The Crown Prince is aware of the good work you do for this particular charity,' the messenger explained while Evie just stared unblinkingly down at the cheque. 'He begs you will accept this small donation as a gesture of atonement. And in the light of events,' Jamal AJ Kareem smoothly continued, 'he feels sure you will understand the necessity for him to also offer you this.'

Evie blinked, glancing up rather dazedly to find yet another offering was being held out to her. It was a business card; she could see that even before she stepped forward to take it. But it was only as she lowered her eyes and found herself staring at the famous logo of a very exclusive private clinic right here in London that the full horror of what was really being relayed to her here finally hit her.

'The Crown Prince is, of course, confident of your continued discretion during this delicate time,' Jamal Al Kareem silkily concluded. 'In anticipation of your understanding, he remains your most humble servant, and hopes this will put an end to the matter.'

An end to the matter, an end to the matter. Those few terrible words went round and round in Evie's head as she stared at that wretched business card while her two visitors made their bows and left her to it.

She didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't do anything at all as far as she was aware. She felt strange, separated from herself almost. As if she were now standing where Jamal Al Kareem had been standing and was observing from a distance someone who looked like her, staring down at the cheque and the business card she was holding in her hands with absolutely no reaction at all. Her face was very white, her lips cold and bloodless. Her eyes were lowered so she couldn't tell what they were doing, but her chest wasn't moving, as if her heart and lungs had simply stopped functioning, effectively cutting the oxygen off from her brain so that it couldn't even attempt to think. Because thinking meant pain the worst kind of pain. The pain of knowing that this truly was the end of the matter. No hope left. No more waiting. No chance that Raschid was going to walk through that door at any moment now and tell her that everything had been sorted in their favour. For Raschid was in Abadilah, with Aisha. And Evie should not be standing here in his apartment. From that very cold, distant place she seemed to have retreated into, she watched her other self open her fingers and let both the cheque and the card drop to the floor. Then that person simply turned and walked away out into the hallway, out of the apartment and into the waiting lift. It took her downwards. She didn't even stop when the concierge called out to her sharply.

Outside, the good weather was still holding. London was baking beneath a heat wave that had most people walking around in shirt-sleeves. So she didn't look out of place in her pale blue knitted top and casual white cotton trousers as she joined the lunchtime rush taking place on the pavements. A car followed her for a while, though she didn't know that, its two occupants pacing her progress along the embankment until she turned onto a paved walkway where a car could not go.

An hour later, maybe two and she was still walking.

It must have been instinct that eventually made her aware of where she was, because she suddenly found herself standing outside her mother's apartment. She rang the bell, and her mother's disembodied voice sounded in the communication box.

'It's Evie,' she heard herself say. 'Can I come in?' There was a moment's surprised silence, then the buzzer sounded to tell Evie she could open the front door now. Her mother's apartment was on the first floor. She was already standing at the flat door when Evie got there. Lucinda took one look at her daughter and went as white as a sheet.

'Oh, my God, Evie,' she gasped in shaken dismay. 'You're bleeding!'

Evie barely heard her; she was too busy fainting at her mother's feet.

It was very late that same evening and Lucinda was sitting beside her daughter's hospital bed when the door suddenly swung open and Sheikh Raschid Al Kadah stepped into the room with his faithful servant crowding right behind him. He took one look at Evie lying so still in the bed and strode urgently forward. Only to pull to a halt when Lucinda Delahaye jumped to her feet and placed herself firmly between him and her daughter. For once, Lucinda looked less than her usual immaculate self. Her hair was untidy, silken threads of gold were tumbling around her face where they had escaped from the elegant chignon they were supposed to be contained in. She had aged decades, her usually alabaster-smooth skin scored by lines of strain.

She grimly ushered them out of the room, firmly closing the door behind her. 'How dare you people show your faces here?' she raked at them viciously.

Raschid didn't seem to hear her. His bronzed skin looked grey, his golden eyes blackened by a terrible shock. 'The baby?'